made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter
by singsongsung
Summary: AU. Ensemble fic, Santana-centered. "The first thing you need to know is that sometimes I forget, too."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is an AU fic with some very loose ties to glee!verse as we know it. The plot is based on the novel _The Likeness_ by Tana French, which I read recently and absolutely adored. I've changed a few plot points, but the general framework follows the novel's storyline. The relationships between their characters will become clear as the story progresses. I don't own _Glee_; I just like to play with the characters. Enjoy, and reviews are love!

* * *

**you made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter**

* * *

The first thing you need to know is that I'm not Gracie Martinez.

Gracie is an invention of my own mind, composed of fragments of my imagination. She has a little brother, a near-perfect relationship with her mother, and has not spoken to her father in years, not since he remarried. She was born in Buenos Aires but the family moved to the States when she was two years old. She loves sunshine. She's not quite sure if she believes in love.

The second thing you need to know is that sometimes I forget, too – but the truth is this: I am not her, and she is not me.

* * *

"Lookin' hot, Lopez."

"Sounding like an idiot, Puckerman."

His breath is warm against my skin as he leans close to my ear. "You wound me, babe."

I swat at him and roll my eyes. Puck is currently my partner (professionally) and has, in the past, been my partner (sexually) – we're bound together now in a way that is irreversible, that makes the rest of the squad refer to us as a unit: "Tell LopezandPuckerman what happened; it's LopezandPuckerman's case to deal with." Neither of us are much for sentimental crap, but if I know anything about my future, it is Puck. Just Puck. We'll retire at the same time, no need to work with anyone else, and he'll always be around, for whatever I need, from a fuck to a friend and everything in between.

He sits on my desk, right on top of a pile of files that I haven't even glanced at yet. "What's today's news?"

"Bomb threat at some school," I tell him lazily. "Looks like it was just a slacker who wanted a day off."

Puck whistles, low and lazy, and it pulls an automatic smirk to my mouth.

"You wish you'd been badass enough to pull that off in high school."

He eyes my legs shamelessly. "I pulled plenty off in high school, baby."

Evenly, I tell him, "I _will_ slap you."

There is something inherently, stupidly comforting about the way his smirk plays against mine, a perfect match. "Please do."

My phone rings just when I'm about the reply, sending Puck into more laughter than necessary – _she's_ done it again, changed my ringtone to _Popular_ from that musical about the wicked witch from Oz or whatever.

"Fuck off," I mutter to him before holding my phone up to my ear. "I'm working, Rach," I say huffily. That damn ringtone.

"San?" Her voice has a tremor in it, high and desperate, and it pulls the smirk off of my face entirely. "Santana – _fuck_."

"What – " Rachel's not big on profanity unless a case calls for it.

"Where have you _been_, I've been _calling_ you over and over and I – "

"Meeting." I cut her off, feeling my heart pound fiercely. "We had a meeting this morning. You know what Schue is like about bringing in our phones, not to mention what would have happened if Broadway songs had started playing out of my bag. You have to stop – "

"I – I need you." She sniffs, collects herself a little as she says, "I need you to come here. Right now. It's serious."

Puck is acting like a moron, staring at me hard and making all these stupid hand signals. I turn away, hold the phone a little closer. "Your dads are okay?"

Rachel starts to cry. Real tears, not her fake ones; I know the difference by now. She's sobbing, like the world is ending, and my stomach knots up. _Oh, shit._ I've never been good with hospitals or funerals or any of that.

"Rach," I whisper, gentle and soft and, admittedly, completely whipped by this girl. I wait as patiently as I can.

"It's not them," she murmurs through quiet gasps. "It's not anyone else, it's – it's _you._"

There is a low buzzing in my ear, an understanding that is still blurry around the edges, slowly falling into place. It is impossible.

"Rachel," I say, but the phone falls from my hand, clattering to the floor.

Puck's hands are on my shoulders, then, his fingers digging in. His eyes are serious, boring into mine. He's not easily concerned, but he looks as shaken as I feel. "What the fucking _fuck_, Lopez?" he asks.

Rachel texts me; my phone beeps to acknowledge it and Pucks grabs for it first.

"Wear sunglasses and a long coat and hide your hair. Plus the address, where she's at, and she says to get there fast. And…" He pauses. "Greater than three?"

I snatch the phone back, clenching my fingers around it. "_Less than_ three, you moron." I swallow. "It's a heart."

"Jesus. What are you two, twelve year olds?"

I look up at his face, willing him to read my mind the way he used to be so apt at doing when we were in bed together. "She said it was me, Puck," I say, and wait for the dots to connect.

* * *

I wear one of Puck's hooded sweaters, oversized on me, a pair of Rachel's ridiculously gaudy sunglasses, and I put my hair up and cover it with a knitted beret that my grandmother sent me last Christmas.

Puck laughs at me. "Gorgeous," he says, but the mirth doesn't quite reach his eyes.

The crime scene is isolated and this whole disguise seems unnecessary. Puck flashes his ID at a local cop and lifts the yellow tape for me to duck under without waiting for permission. I bite back my grin; this is so familiar, so _us_ – the adrenaline feels impossibly sweet.

We stop walking, just for a second, just to breathe it in. He elbows me. "Better than sex."

I laugh, closing my eyes. "Better than sex with _you_, for sure."

"You miss this, San," he says as we start to move forward again, gesturing grandly to his body. "One day you're gonna admit it."

Condescendingly, I pat his back, a bit harder than is necessary to get my point across. "Dream on, buddy."

He gives me a lascivious look. "Oh, _mami_, you know I will."

A blur of bright red trenchcoat and pretty brown hair flies at me before I can even begin to reply. Rachel's hands fist around the material of the sweatshirt of Puck's that I'm wearing and her mouth presses against my neck, warm and hot.

"I needed to see you," she breathes, her whole body firm against mine. I close my eyes once again behind the sunglasses and give into her hug – Rachel makes it kind of impossible not to. "I needed to make sure."

I pat her hair gently, ignoring the way I can _feel_ Puck pretending to flick a whip off to the side and snickering to himself. "Right here," I say, by her ear, pressing a tiny kiss against her cold skin. "I'm right here."

She pulls back and her troubled eyes lock with mine. "I thought – "

To silence her, I give her a real kiss, my mouth against hers. "You think too much," I say when we break apart. Her breathing is so rough that I can't quite relax. I'm breaking protocol all over the place – Puck is the only one who knows about Rachel and I, officially – but the air is so charged that I can't bring myself to care.

Her arms tuck around me and she opens her mouth to speak again, but a purposefully bored voice cuts into our moment.

"Let the girl breathe, Rachel." Kurt plants a hand on his hip, looking as though this is all a waste of his time. He gives me a significant look. "Nice outfit."

I frown as Rachel steps away. "Last-minute disguise."

He ushers us both in, sighing overdramatically. "That's not an excuse."

Puck groans, trailing behind Rachel and I. "I did not leave work to be lectured about fashion, Hummel."

Kurt glares but doesn't bother replying.

And Puck, being Puck, switches gears easily, leering, "Sup, Berry?"

Rachel glances over her shoulder, lips pursed together. "Hello, Noah."

I smirk, I can't help it. Puck likes to take _credit_ for Rachel, whatever the hell that means. On my nicer days, I let him, because really – who got the girl, at the end of everything?

Kurt takes off my sunglasses and my hat for me, tsk-tsking about the messy state of my hair.

"Where's your partner in solving crime?" I ask as sweetly as possible, going for distraction.

Rachel answers: "She's with…" Trailing off, she goes suddenly pale. She shakes her head as though she needs to clear it and turns sharply on the spot so that we're facing each other straight-on. "Kiss me," she says, and it sounds like she's begging. Rachel Berry, as long as I've known her, has never been much of a beggar.

"Ah." Puck leers. "_That_ is almost worth this trip."

I do as told, glancing at Puck over her shoulder for good measure, my eyes slitting open just a bit while Rachel's remain firmly closed. At least we're away from any prying eyes that could get both Rach and I into a lot of trouble with the big guys.

"Chill out, okay, babe?" I ask her.

Rachel's got her bedroom eyes when her lashes finally flutter and her eyes open, heady and hazy and…_damn_. I wonder, briefly, if she brought her own car with her, and how believable it'd be if we "got a flat tire" on the way home.

Mercedes appears in the doorway of the cabin that sits, lonesome and desolate, on this barren piece of hidden land. "Santana." She smiles grimly at me. "Get in here, girl."

Rachel's hand grabs for mine, fingers squeezing too tightly. We walk in together, our footsteps synched. Even as she holds onto me, I have to look back, need to seek out Puck.

His hand ghosts over the small of my back, not quite settling there. "What the fuck are you scared of?" he hisses, throwing me a too-brave grin.

* * *

There is a body on the floor. That much is not unexpected.

"Stay cool," Mercedes says, her eyes locked directly onto mine. "Okay?"

I nod, and when her gaze probes I snap, "_Okay_. Jesus. Enough with the suspense."

"It's okay to be afraid," Rachel murmurs, lifting her chin. She isn't looking down; her eyes are fixed on a random point on one of the disintegrating walls.

"Kurt." Puck's voice is firm, his hand finding its place on my back – somewhere entirely appropriate and almost platonic, for once in our lives. His other arm snakes around Rachel, his hand cupping her elbow as if she might need someone to hold her up. "Just do it, man."

He does, pulling back the sheet. None of us brace ourselves. We're on a Murder squad: dead bodies, we often joke, are our business. There is no shock, no horror, only resignation, only waiting – and the lightest hint of curiosity.

It's a girl, a young woman. She is slim and pretty and dead in the haunting way of a murder, the air around her thick with moments from a life that will now go unlived. Of all of the things I've ever hated about Murder, that thick, suffocating air is always what really gets to me. It tangles in my throat, full and impossible to ignore.

"Shit." Puck sounds panicked, more panicked than I've ever heard him, more panicked than _Santana, babe, stay the fuck awake or I will never fucking forgive you, you bitch_ in the moments after that bullet made contact with my skin all those months ago. "Shit; holy shit. _Shit._"

It hits me a little slower, and I think that should be allowed. It takes a moment for the pieces to snap into place, for the familiarity of her to start to make sense, for my brain to register that looking at her, this dead girl engulfed in what-could-have-been. That girl, she is me.

* * *

It's like I told you. Even I forget, sometimes.

* * *

**tbc.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you for your feedback. :)

* * *

"God…" I murmur softly. Her face – it isn't quite an exact replica of mine, differentiated even more by the obvious fact that she's _dead_, but it is impeccably, frighteningly close.

Rachel has a death grip on my hand, her fingernails digging into my palm. "I thought it was you," she whispers, a note of agony lurking in her words.

"It's not, though." Puck's voice is firm and the weight of his gaze is heavy. "It's not."

They both try to stop me when I step forward. Rachel makes this sad little sound at the back of her throat and keeps squeezing my hand like a lifeline; Puck wraps his arm fully around my waist, his palm pressed into my stomach, keeping me from moving.

"Let go," I tell them, soft and measured, determined not to sound spooked even if I can feel the chill of this moment right down to my bones. "Let go. She's dead. I'm alive. That isn't going to change if you let me go."

Everything is still for a beat and then, slowly but surely, they loosen their grips. When I move away from them, I don't need to turn around to know that they've gravitated automatically to each other, Rachel's small body pressed into Puck's chest, filling the void that I've left between them.

(And for one horrible moment I let myself wonder. If I died, if I was this girl, if she was me, would Rachel and Puck lose anything at all? Would they fill my absence with each other?)

"Santana?"

I throw Mercedes a reassuring smile, slowly crouching next to the girl's body. My knees hit the floor with an ominous _thud_ as I study her. I hold out a hand, lazily dangling in the air, and a moment later Puck sets a pair of white, plastic gloves on my palm.

Once I slip the gloves on, I can't help myself. I reach out and press two fingers, index and middle, against the pulse point on her neck.

Nothing. It makes me shiver.

"San," Rachel whispers, but I ignore her, just for the moment.

The shade of this girl's skin is nearly identical to that of mine. She weighs a bit more than I do, ten pounds or so, nothing significant. Her eyelashes are crazy-long, just like mine. And her fists, they're clenched, which is strikingly disconcerting. I wonder what she was thinking the moment she died, and with that thought my eyes settle on the chain around her neck, the one that holds a delicate little silver cross. I've never really been religious; in fact, I only ever wore a necklace like this at one time in my life.

And it wasn't really my life at all.

I glance up, toward Puck. "Who?" I ask him, and him alone. "Who is this?"

He shrugs at me, helpless, and doesn't break eye contact as he prompts, "Mercedes?"

"That's the thing…" she begins, hesitant to be the one to break it to us.

"No." I shake my head. "No, it's not – "

"Possible," Puck agrees with a nod, picking up my thought. "Not possible."

"She had ID," says Kurt. "Valid ID."

"Bullshit." I want to get to my feet but I can't move, not yet. "ID _we_ fucking created. I made her! I _made_ that girl! She isn't her own." I look at Puck again. "_Right?_ We made her up!"

He nods slowly. "We did."

"What are you thinking? How are you thinking _anything_? I fucking made her up, Puckerman!"

"Shh." Rachel breaks away from the others and comes to sit next to me on the floor. She touches my arm, my wrist, just above my glove. "We know you did."

"Let's see it. Mercedes, let's see her ID."

She hands it over without a word. Puck moves closer, leaning over Rachel and me to get a good look. He whistles, reaching one hand out to ruffle my hair, something I would have snapped at him over on any other occasion. Rachel leans her head against my shoulder.

It _is_ valid ID, bearing all of the statistics about this girl that I am responsible for constructing. We share a birthday. Her house number is the 6543, whereas mine was once 5346. It's her; it's me.

It is both of us. Staring into the eyes of the girl in the tiny photograph on the card, I can't decide. It could be her, it could even be me. I don't know whose face is staring back at me. It is both of us.

* * *

Grace Martinez is born in Noah Puckerman's bachelor pad at 2:39 in the morning on a snowy January night. Puck jokes that we're like her parents, since we created her, and I tell him he's sick, because the whole plan is for me to be her.

Her purpose is to infiltrate a group of college students engaging in multiple illegal activities and driving the bureau crazy. They are getting out of hand, and it's proving impossible to find out who their leader was. Grace is going to win over their trust and find out for us.

Puck is drinking whiskey while Schue sits with me on the couch and has me create Grace, pulling statistics about her from me as quickly as he can, trying to ensure that they'll be things I'll never forget.

"Siblings?" he demands, so I give Grace the little brother I always wanted, granting him a name that has special meaning, Matthew. He asks about parents next, so I complicate her life a little: easy rapport with Mom, not talking to her estranged Dad, who has married again. I construct her childhood with Will Schuester and Puck's occasional input, elementary school and best friends and address and favourite colour.

We work until the sun climbs up into the sky, spitting out information that abruptly becomes fact about the girl I will become in a couple weeks.

"She named after anyone?" Schue asks as Puck yawns expansively. "Great Aunt Grace?"

"No." I shake my head. I don't know where the name came from, but it is her own, my own; it is what links me to her. It is the name I wanted for her.

"Just Grace?" prods Schue, gulping down the rest of the coffee in his mug.

I think about it for a millisecond or so, and that's too long for him. "Grace," he says firmly, expectantly, already teaching me to become her.

"Gracie," I tell him, a correction. _Gracie_, she'll say to those college kids, bright and friendly. _Call me Gracie._

Schue grins tiredly at me, the gesture full of approval. He nods. "Gracie it is."

* * *

I'm sitting, now. Someone thought it would be a good idea to get me a chair, as if I'd ever fainted on a crime scene, which I have not. Rachel stands behind me, her hands gentle on my hair. I lean back gratefully, resting my head against her stomach and peering up at her. She smiles, soft but sure.

"This isn't for real," I tell her.

She nods and for a moment I think I might love her.

"We'll wait for autopsy," Puck says slowly. He's been given a chair as well (it's how we are, a unit; "get LopezandPuckerman a chair") and he's fidgeting in it. "Maybe she had plastic surgery."

"Wishful thinking," Rachel chides him.

"Really?" He frowns at her. "It's not any more realistic than a random girl who _happens_ to be identical to Santana just _happening_ to find and adopt a personality that was without a person."

"Who killed her?" I ask, my voice cracking, and then it occurs to me to inquire, "_How_ did they kill her?"

"Stabbed. The wound was hidden beneath her jacket when you saw her," Mercedes says brusquely.

I sigh and close my eyes, leaning into Rachel. "Fuck me," I mutter, defeated.

She giggles, a bright spot in a gloomy day. "Later."

Puck grins briefly. "Not the time to plant that image in my mind."

I grin back at him, just as briefly, while I lift my head to look over at Kurt and Mercedes. "Witnesses and associates and alibis and all of that…?" I grimace. I'm almost too tired to think.

Kurt nods. "We've got the locals working on it right now. She lived fairly close to this place, in that mansion you would have seen driving in here."

I lift my eyebrows; that was one imposing, majestic house that we passed. "She can't have lived with family, not if she was using Gracie."

He nods. "Friends. Other kids who go to her college; they're all finishing grad degrees, teaching tutorials. There were five of them in the house – the other four are already in for questioning."

"And what are they like?"

"Shaken." He exchanges a look with Mercedes. "Quiet, too, but it could just be that they don't know much. They said she went for a walk, and that was nothing unusual. She just went for a walk."

Mercedes sighs. "Went for a walk and never came home."

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my index finger and thumb. "No sweet clue who she could really be?"

Kurt opens his mouth but Mercedes extends a hand, putting a stop to his words, and levels me with a serious look. "Santana, every single piece of ID associated with this girl says that she is legally Gracie Martinez."

"But she's _not_." The words are torn out of me, sharp and furious.

Rachel rests both of her hands very gently on top of my head, as though she's saying a prayer over me. "We know," she says easily, and then once more for good measure: "We know."

* * *

"I'm alive." The words leave my lips on a gasp, ragged and shaking. My hair is a mess, still with bobby pins tangled in, fanned out over Rachel's pale pink pillowcase.

She kisses her way up my body, lips lazy against my abdomen, the valley of my breasts, my neck. "I know," she says with a sweet smile, but there's something flickering in her eyes, something unsure.

I slip my fingers into her hair, tangling up in familiar, silky brown strands. "Do you?"

Rachel sighs, studying my face. "It got to me," she admits. "She was using your name – the girl you made up – and she looked like you…she even had the _necklace_ you used to wear."

"And she was dead." I fill in what she purposefully leaves out.

She doesn't cringe, only nods. "She was dead," she echoes. "After everything – after last year, after you and Matt, I just don't know…if I can do it again."

In that moment she's not an actress, not an undercover, not anything or anyone but Rachel Berry.

"I wouldn't…" I breathe out slowly. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"I know," she agrees quickly, but the way her lip quivers gives her away. "It's just that it was you, and she was dead."

"But I'm not." I kiss the tears off her cheeks and then kiss her properly, tongues tangling as I use my body to nudge hers back until she's the one pressed against the mattress. "I'm alive."

* * *

Schue has taken his blazer off, unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He's so deep in thought that he doesn't notice when I first enter his office. The pensive expression suits him. Rachel, I know, used to have _such_ a crush on him, and in this moment I can't really blame her.

"Inspector Schuester," I say quietly.

He smiles at me, nonplussed – he knew I was there, somehow, he's that kind of guy; the best in the business. "Good afternoon," he says, and then there is a significant pause. "Come on in, Santana."

I exhale slowly and shut the door behind me. For that moment, I'd been sure he was going to call me Gracie.

He looks over my face. "You want answers, of course."

"Of course," I agree.

His smile stays in place. "This would be an easier day if you'd gotten any sleep last night."

I roll my eyes. "I thought we were here about…Grace."

He drums his fingers on the desk. "She went by Gracie."

My jaw clenches. "I'd know, wouldn't I?"

Across his desk, he leans toward me. "Gracie Martinez was used by this department, by you, four years ago, for a period of two and a half months. I left her in the system, since you fit into her character so well. Another place, another time, if we played our cards right we could have had you use her again. About one hundred red flags went up in our systems when Gracie showed up with a stab wound."

Impatiently, I wait for him to go on.

"Gracie materialized out of thin air around two years ago in the community of Vyneworth, about twenty minutes from Caspree College, which we know is a fairly exclusive institution. Within a couple weeks she fit into a group of kids, and it was the five of them against the world from that moment onward. The house they live in, Terra Firma, was something of a hideout for them."

"Or…a sanctuary." I look him in the eye. "_Terra Firma_. Solid ground."

"Look who paid attention in high school," he praised me.

"If I hadn't, you never would have scouted me for undercover," I volley back, one eyebrow arched high.

He nods, looking at me with the kind eyes I remember from those days. "High school Spanish teacher. That was a good one."

We hold each other's gazes for a moment. Will Schuester was a genius and everyone knew it – still fairly young, well-ranked, he was the man who'd managed to badger a group of small-town Ohio kids into the academy after their high school graduation and create a solid detective/undercover team.

I was one of those kids, "gifted" at high school Spanish because it was my first language, a bitchy, take-no-shit cheerleader. Rachel was never my friend, overachieving and dramatic as she was back then (as she still is, now). Puck was my boyfriend. Kurt and Mercedes were best friends, an unstoppable team when they worked together – then it was makeovers, now it is criminals. And Matt. Matt was my best friend, silent but deadly, sweet beneath layers of quiet, the high school basketball star. He died a few months ago, on the same day I almost did.

Sometimes, in stupid moments caught in the purgatory between selfish and selfless, I would wish that Puck had let me go, too. Maybe, just maybe, Gracie would have died with me and Matt.

Without a word, Schue slides a photograph across his desk, toward me.

It's five people, around my age, mid-twenties. They're sitting on the front steps of Terra Firma with subtle, secretive smiles on their mouths, tangled up in one another.

Two are sitting on steps above the others, a man and a woman. The man grabs attention – his face is serious and regal; captivating. The woman is beautiful, her cheek resting against his shoulder, blonde hair tousled around her face and a far-off gaze that make her look like a fairy queen. The three sitting below them have slightly brighter smiles. An Asian man who seems restless, like he's meant to be in motion, is on one side; on the other, a tall man with a boyish grin. Sandwiched between them, like she belongs there, legs kicked out in front of her, is Gracie.

I can't imagine the picture without her in it.

"They must miss her," I breathe, aching for these people I do not know, these people that Gracie must have loved, people who must have loved her back.

Schue is quiet for too long. Slowly, I lift my gaze toward him, a question in my eyes.

To his credit, he doesn't force me to ask him anything.

He tells me, "They don't know that she's dead."

**tbc.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you for your reviews!

* * *

"You are _kidding_ me, Will."

I smirk to myself, leaning back against the wall and bumping my hip against Puck's. We both love when Rachel does this, starts talking to Schue as though they're equals. Sometimes I'm certain she really believes that it's true.

He's smirking, too. "It's an idea, Rachel, and it's not one I'm prepared to dismiss yet."

She whirls toward me, eyes bright and burning. "You're not doing it. You're not."

Aside from Schue (which goes without saying), Rachel is the best undercover agent I've ever met. Her high school dreams of making it big on Broadway mean that she can cry on command, fit any personality you throw at her, and that she always commits to whatever her role is. I would never admit it, especially not to Puck, but the reality is that Rachel is even better than me. She's better than anyone.

I don't reply to her and Puck tilts his face to get a better look at mine. His eyes widen. "You're thinking about it."

"Santana!" Rachel cries in that scandalized voice of hers, the one that years of separation from high school still have not quite done away with.

"It's like he said, Rach. It's…an idea."

"No." Her hair whips about when she shakes her head. "You have no right to mess with people's lives like that."

"You do it everyday, Rachel," Schue interjects gently. "It comes with the territory, messing with people's lives."

"She's dead." Rachel shoots him a tiny glare, tossed over her shoulder flippantly. "That girl is dead. You can't go into her life and take her place."

"It was my life first," I tell her evenly.

Her eyes widen. "I cannot believe I'm hearing this." She turns to Puck, arms akimbo. "Talk some sense into her!"

I speak again before he can. "You talk about messing up her life, Rach, but…what if they messed up hers first? What if one of them killed her?"

"It's not your responsibility to avenge the death of a girl that stole the identity you created. The world doesn't work like that."

Lips pressed together, I make myself count backwards from three. "This seems like a special circumstance," I tell her as gently as I can, what with my heart doing jumping jacks in my chest.

Schue taps a pen against his desk. "The locals don't have a single suspect," he reminds me. "Those kids kept to themselves. This is plausible, Santana."

There was a time when I knew Gracie as well as I knew myself. Still, whenever I hear a similar name called in a public place, I turn. When I see the surname Martinez on a piece of paper, I do a double-take before I remember that it isn't mine. She was a perfect combination of the things I am and the things I am not, spunky and sweet, wide-eyed yet world-weary, comfortable enough for me to _be_ her, different enough to keep me on my toes. I used to introduce myself with a smile bright as the sun and, "Call me Gracie." It used to be instinct.

"But I don't know her anymore," I tell Schue softly. "This girl made her into someone completely different. She's Gracie, now. I'm just…" _Just me._

"We can find out. We're searching the house. And those kids, they're giving away enough information in their questioning for you to work with. It's the same thing, Santana. You were Gracie before; you can be her again."

"Stop pushing her into this!" Rachel actually stomps her foot on the floor.

"Berry." Schue lifts his eyebrows at her. "You're not Santana's partner. You don't have any input in this matter."

There is a beat of silence, charged with grief. Matt was Rachel's partner; she's been working with Sam since she got back to work after his death and there's still that hint of emptiness, of missing Matt.

"But I'm Santana's…" Rachel trails off, her voice suddenly small. "It's so risky. On so many levels."

My lips quirk, unbidden, into a soft smile. "I like a thrill, Rachel."

"That isn't the point, Lopez." Schue turns those raised eyebrows in my direction and I bristle just a little bit. "Something about those kids just doesn't sit right to me, but this isn't about you having fun or finding your success after everything that happened at the cove." My shackles go up even further at that, but he ignores my glare and continues: "If you go into this, you go in for Gracie."

A thick silence lingers in the room when I don't reply to him right away. This is the kind of decision that our lives are made of, the kind that you want to think over for days and days, the kind that you need to make based on your instincts in the moment.

Kurt saves me by walking in at that moment, a thick file folder held aloft in one hand. "Autopsy results," he says grimly.

Puck pushes aware from the wall, his expression eager but just as grim. "Plastic surgery?" he asks hopefully. Rachel scoffs at those words but he ignores her.

"None." He lays the file on Schue's desk and opens it, spreads out sheets and photographs all over the mahogany surface. We gather around like eager schoolchildren, Rachel just a millisecond ahead of me and Puck. In a way, we'll always be Will Schuester's students.

Puck is disappointed. "Anything good at _all_?" he asks, almost whining.

"Very good." Rachel, of course, has found the crucial pieces of information in a single glance. "Or very bad, depending on your perspective." She lifts her face to mine, two sets of brown eyes locked. "She was pregnant."

I actually gasp – this quiet, girly little thing at the back of my throat that I try to ignore. I cannot be Gracie if every new fact about her life is going to shock me.

Schue looks intrigued. "How far along?"

"Barely. Five weeks."

"The father?" I ask warily. "She didn't have a boyfriend, did she?"

"If she did, he's proving impossible to find." Schue rubs at his temples. "Those five kids stuck together like glue and no one else was welcome to join them."

"So one of the boys in the house, then?" Rachel bites the corner of her lip, her head tilted slightly. She's beautiful; I can't help but think it.

"Just friends." Kurt's voice is wry, making it clear that he doesn't believe a word of what he's saying. "They insist that they're all _just friends_."

I think back to that photograph that Schue showed me – that knowing look in the eyes of the man who owned the house, the other two flanking Gracie comfortably – and I try to think of any signs of a relationship that would have fallen under a heading other than friendship, but they looked more like a family than a group of young adults tangled up in their own relationships.

"Will," I whisper, "where is Gracie right now?"

Schue gives me a fleeting smile. "Intensive care, in a coma."

I nod. "How long until she wakes up?"

"Three days, ideally."

"Gracie's dead, San." Rachel inches closer to me, her shoulder pressed against mine, heat radiating between our bodies. "Let her die."

"She won't, Berry." Puck's smirk is lazy, like he knows me better than he knows myself. "She's gonna bring her back to life."

* * *

Three days of my life are spent learning to be Gracie again. Schue and I spend hours on end in his office with Puck drifting in and out. He asks me question after question until I can answer without thinking.

Terra Firma, I learn, belongs to Jesse St. James, which I think is one hell of a pretentious name – but Rachel, when I tell her, pouts at me and says that she thinks it sounds romantic. He is the serious man from the picture, curly brown hair and all-knowing eyes. _Impossible to crack_, that's what Mercedes tells me when she gets back from watching the local boys try to question him.

Mike Chang is the name of the Asian guy; apparently an easygoing dude who isn't concerned with much of anything besides when he can see Gracie again. Puck seems to like the guy; I wonder about Gracie's baby. The last man, the freakishly tall one, is Finn Hudson. He's the jumpiest – _the worrier_, Mercedes says with a roll of her eyes, but I can tell that he's Kurt's favourite.

I sit on top of Schue's desk, legs crossed neatly in my black jeans. "And the girl?" I ask.

"Quinn Fabray," Schue reports, handing me another small collection of photographs.

Kurt makes a face. "She's very…blonde."

I roll my eyes at him. "That explains nothing."

"Yes, it does," Mercedes insists. "Girl's a walking stereotype."

With a sigh, I turn to Schue. "This is impossible. I'm never going to know what they expect from me."

"They don't expect anything from you, Santana," he tells me steadily. "They expect Gracie."

* * *

Rachel and I spend my last night of living my own life – for now, anyway – curled up on the couch at my apartment with a pint of Ben & Jerry's between us, watching videos that Gracie recorded on her iPhone.

The latest one, the last before she died, shows the other four in the attic of Terra Firma, laughing at all the silly heirlooms of the St. James family and teasing each other incessantly.

Mike speaks first, grinning at someone just off-camera. "Hey, Q, check this out."

Her laugh is pretty, melodic and tinkling. Gracie moves so that Quinn's face appears in her shot. Her hair is gathered up off her face and she's holding an old, tattered book. "This is a first edition. Jesse!" she calls, and the camera moves again.

Jesse is sitting by a box, his smile lazy and content. "My aunt was a packrat," he explains, and that statement makes Quinn laugh again.

"So are _you_," she says, and there's something so untouchable about this moment, something very pure about their friendship.

Finn laughs and there's a squeal as the camera jerks around, like he's wrapped Gracie up in his arms, surprised her by sneaking up behind her.

"Put me down!" she cries, all giggles, and Rachel and I gasp in unison at the sound of her voice.

He clearly does not put her down, since the camera is suddenly focused on the floor. "Remind me why we're up here, again?"

"Jesse's gonna make us supper." The camera swings up again to focus on Mike's grin, which widens even more. "What the eff are you doing, Gracie?"

"Documenting." Her voice is a little airier than mine. "For posterity. _The night Jesse agreed to cook for us_," she intones.

"Give me that." Quinn's tone is firm, just barely bordering on bossy. "I'll document, you be helpful."

"Gracie's always helpful."

Jesse scoffs. "I beg to differ."

"Apologize!" Gracie demands immediately. The camera moves around again, in Quinn's hands now, and shows us her face – my face.

"You know this is pointless?" The camera swings toward Finn, who is now standing by Jesse. "I don't understand what you're trying to find. Let's throw out the useless stuff. We'll order some pizza, have a good night."

"Finn." Someone else grabs the camera, probably Mike, and then it's trained on Quinn's face, a little too zoomed in at first. "This is his heritage."

Disgruntled, Finn says, "I thought we weren't allowed to have pasts."

Quinn doesn't say a word, but the look she throws toward Gracie speaks volumes. Gracie smiles as though she hasn't noticed the tension thrumming between the two men; she steps right into it, right between them.

"It's paaaaast dinnertime." She drawls out the words, sweet and playful. Her smile doesn't falter as she leans down, hands on Jesse's knees. "C'mon."

"Gracie." He touches her cheek and they share a look; a silent, incomprehensible conversation.

"Jesse." Quinn says his name the same way he just said Gracie's, reaching out to them both. "I'll _help_ you cook," she offers, a laugh tucked into her words.

It ends there, cutting off to abruptly – they must have all abandoned their attempt to clean the attic and decided to eat.

But it's enough, that little snippet of their lives, and I know that Rachel senses it to from the way she cuddles up close to me, her chin perched on my shoulder. There are so many nuances in relationships, so many secrets that aren't really secrets, exactly, but just pieces of information that are so well known that they don't need to be discussed. The way these five people define themselves and their relationships with Gracie, as lovers or friends or something that I've never even known – those are the things I will never be able to learn simply from observing them.

"What do you think?" Rachel whispers, lips grazing my jaw.

I tilt my head away from her touch and say, "I don't know," on an exhale.

"San…"

I turn my head to look at her, our eyes locked. "Rachel." It's a problem for us sometimes, the stubborn way we're always both so sure that our own opinions are the right ones. "Don't do this."

She holds my gaze for a moment, thinking it over, and I hold my breath while I wait for her to make a decision. I don't want to fight on my last night with her but I can't back down any more than she can.

Rachel sighs softly. "Do you think any of those boys are the father?"

My body feels like it is uncoiling, tension seeping away. "The five of them don't seem to have friends – acquaintances, even – outside their group."

She plays with my hair, spinning strands around her fingers. "Maybe Gracie did. Maybe that was the problem."

I arch my eyebrows. "You think they killed her because she was with someone who wasn't one of them? Really?"

Rachel purses her lips. "Never rule anything out, baby."

That makes me roll my eyes at her. "You're such a cop."

She laughs, pretty and musical. "You love it."

My breath catches in my throat. "Yeah."

That surprises her, and I knew it would. "Yeah?" she asks, cautious eyes fixed on my face like she can't quite decide if I'm trying to trick her.

"Well." I feel grumpy about having this emotional conversation when I already know all the tricks to getting Rachel into bed. "It's obvious that you love me."

Her eyes widen. "_Obvious?_"

"Yes, obvious." I flash a quick grin at her. "I'm a cop, too, remember. I've seen the evidence."

She grins back, that bright smile I adore. "Oh, and what is this evidence?"

"You were singing _Don't Go Breaking My Heart_ in the shower yesterday morning."

"Before I was _rudely_ interrupted."

"You didn't seem too upset."

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings." She touches my cheek with her fingertips. "I know how sensitive you are."

It's not quite a joke and I could almost cry. "I'll miss you."

"_Santana._" The way she says my name is a sympathetic hum. "You're coming back to me."

I nod instead of saying something.

"San." Her hand finds mine, fingers threading together. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." That is my biggest truth right now. "Say…that we'll have lots of phone sex."

She laughs again, shaking her head. "Are you really going to make me say it first?"

I shake my head, angling my body towards hers on the couch. "Let's not talk."

"But – "

I slip my fingers into her hair and lean in closer to her. "Shh. I know."

* * *

Rachel and I say our goodbyes at HQ, in the corner of Schue's office, while everyone else politely pretends not to spy. She's not coming with me to Terra Firma – it would be awkward, it would be too easy for me to be thrown off guard, it would be…_hard_.

"You'll be awesome," she tells him softly, stamping a final kiss against my cheek. I can feel her brave smile against my skin.

"Obviously."

Will clears his throat. "Ready, Santana?"

I breathe Rachel in for one last second, the scent of her shampoo and her skin, before I turn to him and wink, cheeky and sweet. "That's Gracie to you, Schuester."

He grins back at me proudly but I catch the slightest hint of something (it can't be regret, it _can't_) in his eyes. "Let's get you home," he says quietly.

The guys go with me – Sam drives and Will rides shotgun, Puck and I sit in the backseat. He holds my hand, which is one of those things that embarrasses us so that we can't look each other in the eye and will never, ever speak of it again.

But I'm thankful for it, anyway.

* * *

The road to Terra Firma is long and winding, picturesque yet desolate. It's quaint, in a way, like the path toward a New England boarding school – only certain people with certain pedigree would ever bother to travel it. However, there's something strange about this, this group of college students who have excluded themselves from society.

Schue catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "You'll be great. You always are."

Sam pulls into the driveway and stops the car. Three of the house's residents are sitting on its steps, awaiting our arrival, which I hadn't counted on. I thought I'd have another second or two to become the girl they were waiting for.

"I'll walk you," Schue says.

Puck squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asks, "You've got your gun?"

I nod.

One last squeeze of my hand, and then he lets go. "Go kick some ass, Lopez."

When I step out of the car I realize that the three of them are now standing – Finn and Mike are still back by the steps, hovering uncertainly, while Quinn has moved forward a few paces, looking at us with anxious eyes.

I can feel Will's presence – he's standing close by, just within my peripheral vision – but all I can see is her face, her pretty blonde hair, her blue dress and her white cardigan. All I can hear is the way she says that name, _my_ name, with all the care and hope and love in the world –

"_Gracie?_"

Tears pool in her eyes but she blinks them away, finds a smile somewhere inside of her and plasters it on for my sake. Her fists are clenched and the wind is playing her dress, lifting the hem of it daringly. I can tell, just by looking at her, how very much she wants to hug me.

"Hi," I breathe.

Show time.

**tbc.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you for your feedback.

* * *

Quinn hovers there for a moment, and then another. It's too long and I can't breathe – I don't know what Gracie would do in this situation, I have no idea at all.

But then Mike grins, his eyes shining bright, and he lopes forward and lets his hand linger over Quinn's back as he demands lightly, "What're you waiting for, Q?" He moves past her, and he hugs me.

His hug is the good kind, solid and grounding, and I squeeze him back, arms wrapped around him.

"Welcome home," he says. When he lets me go Quinn is still standing there, and in the second before she smiles something entirely heartbreaking flashes over her face.

"Gracie, hi," she says, rushing forward and throwing her arms around me.

Her hugs feels…like Rachel's, like the kind of hug you bestow upon someone you can't live without. It lasts for a long time but it isn't too tight. Her hair is in my face and her skin smells kitchen-good, like she's spent the day baking cookies.

"Hey, Quinn," I whisper and she clutches me tightly for an extra moment.

"Look at you," she breathes, a smile lighting up her face; Quinn in real life is much like Quinn in pictures and on video, a bit closed off until she trusts you but still genuine. "You don't know how much we _missed_ you."

Finn steps forward, clearly too patient to wait any longer, and engulfs both of us in a hug, our heads tucked just under his arms. He's ridiculously tall and being hugged by him feels like being embraced by a giant teddy bear. He even manages to lift both Quinn and I an inch or two off the ground for a split second.

She laughs into his shoulder, eyes closed and smile wide against the fabric of his shirt, and I feel him drop a soft, subtle kiss onto the crown of my head. When I glance up at him he beams down at me, and wide and unassuming smile. "Missed your face, kid," he says lightly.

"And your body," Mike teases, hooking a finger into one of the belt-loops on my – Gracie's – jeans, which are a tiny bit baggy on me. "You look too skinny."

Jesse steps forward and silence falls for a moment. He'd been hanging back, and I'd noticed that, but I'd decided to let him make the first move, particularly since none of the others seemed bothered by his hesitance.

"Let's just say we missed all of you, Grace," he says in that charming, melodic voice of his. I've heard it before but in person, with his eyes fixed on mine, it's much more disarming.

"No hug, Jesse?" I tease, concentrating on making my voice into Gracie's, a little airier, a little more of a singsong rhythm in each of the words.

He extends an arm, gives me a silent nod.

His hug is gentle, his muscles relaxing nice and slowly as he digs his nose into my hair and just holds me. I let him end it, and as he pulls back he slips his fingers behind my ear, tucking my hair back tenderly.

"You scared us," he says solemnly.

I roll my eyes, "_Sorry._"

There is a beat of tension, just this tiny little beat, and then Quinn's arm hooks through mine and she smiles at me but her eyes slide toward Jesse. "Don't be sorry, goofball," she offers lightly, tugging me toward the house. "Come inside, come home…" Tossing her hair, she calls over her shoulder, "Finn…"

I look back and see that he's already got my bag of things, mostly full of the items they sent to hospitalized Gracie, in his hand. "Got it covered," he says with a lazy smile aimed at us.

And we go inside.

* * *

The air inside of Terra Firma seems to thrum with new energy. I run through blueprints in my head, mentally reviewing the quickest path to Gracie's bedroom, to the nearest bathroom, to the dining room, and I'm relieved that I can remember it all.

"It's…quiet in here," I remark carefully. I'm high-strung, more alert than I should be – but so are they.

Finn shrugs. "It's been hard."

"But you're back now," Mike pipes up. He glances at his watch. "And dinner's almost ready."

Quinn shifts slightly, disentangling herself from me and moving toward Mike. "Take Gracie's bag upstairs so that she can freshen up, Finn?" She frames it like a question, accompanied by a pretty smile.

* * *

Finn swings the door of Gracie's bedroom open and lets me step inside first, following on my heels and loping over to the bed, where he deposits the bag carefully. He jams his hands into his pockets and rocks forward onto his toes, smiling at me. "Home sweet home."

I nod, looking around the room casually. It looks like the pictures I've seen: the bed, now made up for me with fresh sheets, the dresser and the closet, the laundry hamper in the corner and the bookshelf beneath the window. It's simple – I remember that it didn't take them long to search her room.

"Gracie?"

I blink and offer him the cheeky grin that Gracie has patented. "Sorry. I zoned out."

His smile fades slightly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah! Of course."

He tilts his head, examining my face. "Because it's okay if you're not." He chokes out a mirthless laugh. "None of us are really okay."

I take a couple steps toward him. "We'll all be okay. Aren't we always?"

"Yeah." Finn shuffles closer to me in turn. "You really can't remember anything?"

I give my head a quick shake and shrug helplessly. "I can't remember much after the morning of the accident. And after that all I've got is waking up in a hospital bed."

"And…before that?"

"What…?" I wonder softly, my words halting instantly when his hand moves to touch my cheek, his large palm soft against my skin, his thumb moving over the apple of my cheek.

He smirks at me and inclines his head toward the door. "Let's go eat."

* * *

Dinner is pretty easy.

The boys cook dinner (and tomorrow morning, I know, I will be expected to get out of bed when Quinn taps on my door so that I can help her make breakfast), and tonight it's spaghetti with homemade sauce and chocolate zucchini cake cooling on the kitchen counter.

Mike touches my back, fingers drumming gently against my spine. "Your favourites."

I bob into a teasing courtesy when he pulls my chair out for me. "You guys didn't have to."

Jesse takes his seat at the head of the table; Quinn and I sit on either side of him, Finn sits next to Quinn and Mike next to me. "Of course we did, Gracie."

Finn starts to pour wine into all of our glasses. Their cutlery is beautiful and most likely a relic inherited from the St. James family, all of the wine glasses bordered at their rims by a band of gold. I set my hand over it when Finn extends the bottle toward me – I can't get drunk tonight, not even tipsy, not even a bit off of my game. "Meds," I say, making a face.

Quinn's foot bumps gently against mine underneath the table, but when I look at her I see that her eyes are glued on Jesse's, communicating silently.

"We don't need to drink tonight," Mike says, his voice particularly low, as though he knows he's not in charge of this decision.

"Don't be crazy." Jesse grins at him but there's steel in his voice. "Gracie's fine." He nods to Finn. "Just a sip or two won't hurt her."

"Jesse – "

"I know that you're on antibiotics, Gracie, but I'm sure you can't be on codeine. As long as you make sure it's only a sip I know you'll be fine." His eyes linger too long on my face. "Don't you trust me?"

I roll my eyes. "Why wouldn't I?"

Across the table, I see Quinn take a sharp breath, but when I turn toward her I see that she's reaching up, tugging gently on Finn's sleeve. "Sit," she tells him.

When he looks at her, his smile is so tender that it takes my breath away, and I wonder –

Under the table, I kick her lightly, wondering if it's some sort of signal between the two girls. She arches an eyebrow at me, mildly unconcerned, obviously asking, _are you okay?_

I smile and nod and lift my fork to eat.

They carry the conversation and it's up to me to find the spots where Gracie fits in. They don't miss a beat, these people, when they're with one another, it's as seamless as anything I've ever seen. It's as seamless as Puck and I, when we're together.

"We took care of your tutorials for you, Gracie," Finn tells me happily, and then they launch into a conversation about how annoying the eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds they deal with all day are.

Quinn tells a story about this one girl they've all apparently had experiences with, a girl named Alicia Smith that they simply can't stand, and they're all laughing near-hysterically. Mike extends his hand over the table, interjecting a point that throws Quinn into another fit of laughter and she reaches for his hand, squeezes it until both of their knuckles turn white. Finn is slouched way down in his seat, heat tipped back, laughing his full laugh, and I'm watching them, giggling along because they're beautiful, they really are, and this feels so much like a home that for a moment I nestle into the warmth of it, for a moment I want to belong here.

Then I glance at Jesse and it's like being doused in cold water. He's smiling, but he's watching me like he's trying to read my mind. His eyes aren't smiling.

I tilt one eyebrow up and ask softly, under the sounds of laughter, "Yes?"

His smile relaxes just a little at the corners. "You don't remember Alicia? You used to rant about her nearly everyday."

"What're you talking about!" Finn cries, having overheard, "Of _course_ she remembers Alicia. The time she raised her hand…and asked if they were allowed _crumbling snacks_ in the examination room…"

"Crumbling!" Mike exclaims, like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. He's pushed his plate aside and he's stretched out halfway across the table, diagonally, his forehead resting on Quinn's hand.

She runs her fingers through his hair affectionately and grins at me, her whole face bright with mirth. "And how she's always _flipping_ her hair, right at the boys, so obviously…"

I giggle on cue. "Such a temptress," I say, and (thank god) that sets them off again. I turn my gaze toward Jesse, still giggling for effect. "I remember."

He inclines his head and his smile blossoms into something genuine and _jesus christ_ all of a sudden he's the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. I laugh with him and wonder if Gracie felt that way, too.

* * *

Finn and Mike do dishes after we eat nearly all of the cake. Jesse disappears somewhere, leaving Quinn and I to sit at the dining room table. She sips her wine while I leave mine untouched, and we talk about nonsense. Over by the sink, Mike is flicking soap bubbles at Finn and the taller man is jumping away.

"Don't be such a girl!" I call to him, sticking out my tongue.

Mike lifts both hands from the sink, covered in bubbles, and turns toward us ominously.

"No, no, no!" Quinn says quickly, holding her hands out in protest, her eyes sparkling.

Mike glances at me. "What'd'you think, kid?"

"Spare me." I hold up my hands, like Quinn, in surrender. "I'm injured."

That's all it takes to ruin the moment. Quinn reaches out and tosses a dishtowel to Finn before he can even ask for it. Mike returns his hands to the sink. Jesse walks in, smiling as he rests a gentle hand on Quinn's head. She smiles, too, the moment he does it, this little private smile that makes me doubt myself, because I'm sure Gracie would have understood its meaning.

"I'm ready for you, ladies."

I stand up. "About time."

* * *

The living room is clearly their sanctuary. It's huge but cozy – there is a fresh fire blazing in the fireplace, undoubtedly courtesy of Jesse. Almost an entire wall of the room was covered with windows, but the thick curtains have been drawn almost fully, so that only about two feet of window-space remains uncovered. On the side of the room opposite the fireplace there is a grand piano – I remember Kurt mentioning that Finn could play.

There were multiple places to sprawl: the thick, comfy-looking Persian rug, either of the large armchairs, or the long couch covered with throw cushions. I move toward the couch on instinct and then freeze as I approach the coffee table, wondering suddenly what _Gracie's_ instinct would be.

Thankfully, the others fill in the blanks for me. Finn comes into the room and flops into one of the armchairs with a contented sigh. Quinn moves past me, too, curling up like a cat in one corner of the couch. Mike kicks back on the floor in front of the other end of the couch, arranging pillows behind his back. The other armchair, the larger and the more imposing of the two, undoubtedly belongs to Jesse – and that's when I see the good-sized ottoman right by the fireplace, a collection of books gathered around it and on it, the spot where Gracie must sit.

"Sorry if your things are messed up," Quinn says, following my gaze to Gracie's thesis materials. "The police searched through everything. When we were allowed, I tried to organize everything back the way you'd it, but I couldn't quite remember…"

I sit cross-legged on the ottoman, settling in, the heat of the fire against my back. "You didn't have to do that, Quinn. I'm sure it's fine."

Jesse pokes at the fire for a moment before he moves to his chair, his fingers brushing my knee as he moves past me. "Were they kind to you, Gracie?" he inquires.

I blink, confused. "Who?"

Mike glances up from the floor and answers for Jesse, "The police."

There is a defensive prickling along my spine that belongs solely to me and not to Gracie, so I try to squash it. "They were wonderful," I say as casually as I can.

"_Wonderful_?" Finn asks. He scoffs. "They weren't wonderful to us."

Quinn nods, and it might be the light of the fire but she looks a shade paler. "They treated us like suspects."

I feign shock. "That's ridiculous!"

Finn throws out his arms as if he'd been waiting the entire time for someone to say those exact words. "Isn't it!" he exclaims.

Jesse smirks tolerantly. "They were doing their job, Finn."

I bite my lip and rub at the spot of my fake wound. "Did they ever tell you what other suspects they had? Or who might have done this to me?"

"No," Quinn says, apologetic. "They didn't."

Blowing out my breath, I confess, "I just wish I _knew_."

She nods sympathetically. "Of course. So do we."

I make a show of looking at the books scattered around me as though I'm searching for a certain one. In my peripheral vision, I see Finn yawn, and I see Quinn give Jesse a look I instantly know I'll never be able to understand.

* * *

Their seating arrangement makes a great deal of sense as the quiet evening wears on. Quinn is sitting on the side of the couch closest to the fireplace so that she has light by which she can sew. I don't dare to ask her what she's making because it seems like Gracie would have known. Mike falls asleep on the floor; if he were on the couch he'd take up the whole thing and invade Quinn's space, so I understand now why he doesn't sit next to her. In his seat, Finn can stretch his long legs out in front of him in his chair, his foot bouncing to the beat of whatever music is in his head as he reads. And Jesse – well, his chair just suits him.

For my part, I've moved from the ottoman onto the floor so that I can rest my back against it and I have all my books in easy reach. Apparently that's an acceptable move, since only Jesse glanced up when I slipped down to the floor, and he threw me a half-smile before returning his attention to his book.

I wonder what time I'm allowed to go to bed, to disappear from their world and slip at least halfway back into mine, to call Rachel and tell her how this first evening has gone.

Mike snores; Quinn giggles so I do, too, and all of a sudden I'm not so eager to leave.

Just a minute longer.

* * *

**tbc.**


End file.
